80 and Agent 18
by BlackStar42Roses
Summary: He's the infamous 80— Intentional Superspy, Mr. Suave, and, until most recently, the world's most drooled-over bachelor. And everybody—from the FBI to the CIA to MI6 and even the Yakuza, is dying to know who the lucky lady is. Except, it's not a lady. And Agent 18 will bite you to death if you ever mention the loss of both their single statuses ever again. Happy Valentine's Day!
1. Chapter 1

80 and Agent 18

Synopsis: He's the infamous 80— Intentional Superspy, Renowned Martial Artist, Mr. Suave, and, until most recently, the world's most drooled-over bachelor. And everybody—from the FBI to the CIA to SAS and MI6 and even the Yakuza, is dying to know who the lucky lady is. Except, it's not a lady. And Agent 18 will bite you to death if you ever mention the loss of both their single statuses ever again.

Notes: I do not know what I am writing, but this should be bordering crack. This is a oneshot that ended up into three parts because of how ridiculously long it was.

I have no idea how a wedding procedure goes when you register at those buildings and I'm a lazy shit who won't even bother to google it, so please, don't mind me. Also, you can't roll up the painting _Starry Night_, so ignore that little fact while reading. You'll understand why later.

Also: Happy Valentine's Day! I love you guys so much :') I read every review posted to any of my stories and I use them all as motivation to continue writing fanfics and my other stories. This is a thank you gift for all of you guys~

P.S. Can you guess who the other spies are by their code names? :'D

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn. Any similarities in events or characters living or dead are entirely coincidental.

Enjoy!

* * *

_Chapter One_

Two-Seven is currently laughing himself into an asthma attack on the floor of Yamamoto's flat, which, as all superspies from Organization V know, is a sign of the upcoming apocalypse.

"Oh my god," Two-Seven, who likes to be called Tsuna when he's off the clock or in bed with his boyfriend, chokes out between huffs of laughter. "Oh my god. You got married. You. You got married. You got married!"

"Yes, I'm aware of that," Yamamoto growls, pouring himself a cup of piping hot coffee to soothe his pounding hangover and a throbbing lump on his forehead. Tsuna's still laughing.

"You. You, the bachelor of all bachelors. Mr. Suave with all the ladies. What the hell, I'm pretty sure even Irie from Tech has minor fantasies about you and he once turned down a Russian playboy bunny so he could work on his Gola Moscas. But you got married!"

"I _know_," Yamamoto snaps, taking a gulp and scalding his tongue.

"To a guy!"

"Shut up," Yamamoto groans.

"_To Agent 18!_"

Yamamoto spins around and throws his coffee at Tsuna. He has a feeling that it's going to be a very long day.

* * *

It starts with a shitty forgery of the _Starry Night_ by Vincent van Gogh with crayons.

No, backtrack a little. It starts with the time the network crashed at HQ and everybody got a freebie day to go out and go-kart or loosen the tops of all the salt shaker in all the feds' cafeterias, whatever.

But it all goes back to the stupid _Starry Night_, regardless.

Yamamoto was actually working for a change when Reborn leans over the top of his cubicle and says, "You need to go to London."

"No I don't," Yamamoto replies, scrolling down the page when he finishes reading the update on Madame Six and Signore Nine's latest mission. They are one of V's resident spy couples and a lot like Mr. and Mrs. Smith, except with more pineapples and a lot less American accents. Apparently they're in Cairo right now and camels do not agree with Signore Nine.

"Yes you do," Reborn says. "I'm your boss."

"No I don't," Yamamoto hums, clicking another link. "And I don't care."

"What's so awful about London?"

"The rain," Yamamoto offers without really paying attention.

"You like the rain. You were born in the rain."

"I was not," Yamamoto frowns, looking up now. Reborn raises an eyebrow.

"You told me the tragic story of your birth to a poor single mother in the middle of a rainstorm in Hokkaido after you drank three bottles of vodka and ate a seaweed-flavoured pancake."

Yamamoto wrinkles his nose. "I ate a seaweed-flavoured pancake?"

Reborn nods solemnly. "You also want to go to London."

"Forget it," Yamamoto grumbles. "London is on my list of 'never again' places."

"You went there once."

"I was labeled as an enemy of the country and put on MI6's most wanted!" Yamamoto complained.

"And apparently you were in the Top 5 for four weeks in a row," Tsuna jumps in, crowding up to Reborn and giving his boyfriend a smacking kiss on the cheek. Yamamoto scowls at him. "Aren't you supposed to be in Taiwan right now?"

"Yeah, but I got bored of scouting that corrupt dictator," Tsuna shrugs. "So I came home! Also, Spanner accidentally spilled a bowl of ramen onto the main circuit board, so I came downstairs to warn you that power's going to go out in about five seconds."

"Motherfu—" Reborn starts to say, and then the entire floor goes black.

There are ear-piercing screams of surprise, sounds of confusion and yells of "Aliens!" before someone hits the emergency light switch and everything is thrown into a hazy, yellow glow. Reborn glares at everybody and moves to stand on Yamamoto's desk. The spy slaps Reborn's Ferragamo loafers with a 'Safety first! How to properly conduct a target hit-and-run' brochure but gets no response.

"Shut up, incompetent oafs," Reborn shouts over the murmurings in the bullpen. "It's the Millefiore Mob. They've caught up with us. They've cut our electricity, replaced all our toilet paper with sandpaper, and are going to infiltrate headquarters soon. So, off you go to an early lunch."

There are mumbles of surprise, but then everybody's shrugging and reaching to grab their coats and wallets, debating who's carpooling with who's laser-beam shooting spy car and if they should have Greek or Chinese today. Reborn gets off Yamamoto's desk and looks down at him.

"You're going to London. And then, please swing by to New York to pick up my dry cleaning for me."

"Pooey," Yamamoto snips back, irritable, and then somebody decides to shut off the emergency lights at that very moment. In the midst of more shrieks of bemusement and several more cries of "Aliens!" Yamamoto makes his unhurried and unnoticed escape by parachuting out the window.

* * *

London, as always, is rainy and British and rainy. Yamamoto takes the tube under the Thames and tries to look very discreet in his navy Hugo Boss suit and a four thousand dollar coat. Three beggars came up to him for money and another one tries to pick his pocket, but Yamamoto catches him and dangles him by the foot over a bridge until the man almost pees himself. Then he gives the guy a couple of bank notes and an apple from his briefcase before going on his merry way.

He's stopped several times by police officers, but he convinces them that no, he's not on Britain's Most Wanted, and yes, that is my twin brother, such a shame, he had so much potential but he blew it all away, broke my poor mother's heart, and goodbye, Scotland Yard. Yamamoto finds his contact, Smoking Bomb, waiting for him at their secure location in a small, smoky pub.

"You're late, 80." Smoking Bomb snaps over puffs of his fading cigarette.

"Sorry," Yamamoto replies, sliding into the booth with his briefcase while not really feeling sorry at all. "I ran into a giant flaming winged Sphinx on my way here and had to battle it off."

"You're late," Smoking Bomb replies flatly. Yamamoto squints at his ally.

"What're you going by nowadays?" he asks. The silverette shrugs. "Gokudera. I'm also an unemployed fourth grade teacher who likes to sit at home and watch all the soap operas my wife left behind when she cheated on me."

"My condolences," Yamamoto nods, wondering when Agent Resources would finally get bored of the 'single and holed up in my flat because my husband/wife left me' excuse to let agents to spy from home. He signals the bartender for a pick-me-up and downs it in one go. "Did you know that I'm still wanted in England?"

"The first thing I did when I got here was ask Reborn if I could sell you out to the authorities," Gokudera says, taking a drag. "But he said you were in France, and extradition between the two is a bureaucratic nightmare."

"If I ever go to Spain, I am collecting money for that hit on you, asshole," Yamamoto grumbles. Gokudera narrows his eyes and hisses, "Bring it."

They jeer at each other for another half hour and drink more alcoholic beverages before Gokudera hands him a package wrapped in newspaper—Yamamoto's mission files for his time in England. He makes a face at them.

"Now if you'll excuse me," Gokudera says dryly, standing up and pulling his shabby duster on. "I have to go home and see if Mallory has forgiven Charles for sleeping with Josie yet, or design a new watch that shoots mini missiles out of the wind-up, whichever comes first."

Yamamoto heads home after that.

London comes and goes without much, mainly because his temporarily fabricated identification names him as a drunk bachelor who is also a part-time, shut-in blogger, so Yamamoto's forced to hole himself up inside the dreary little flat while he watches his target through multiple hidden cameras on his laptop. It's a week of boredom and take-out and it's enough to make him go insane. Yamamoto had never been good with sitting still; he'd been hyperactive as a child, joined the army the minute he was of age, and now served as one of the best spies in the most powerful organization around the world. The only thing that made this mission slightly more bearable was Tsuna, his only source of human interaction. Granted, human interaction was still pretty much limited to instant messaging over cold take-out.

_27Booty says: whassup_

_Mr. Suave says: why are you messaging me. Don't you have a mission in Tokyo?_

_27Booty says: cancelled. Deal between Yakuza and our diplomat fell flat; they said that they'd open fire on any of our agents if we went to Japan_

_Mr. Suave says: I'd give you my sympathies but I'm not actually sorry_

_27Booty says: thx for nothing a-hole. _

_Mr. Suave says: fuck off_

_27Booty says: w/e. so, are you bored?_

_Mr. Suave says: no, it's the epitome of my life here in a city I don't want to be in huddled over a laptop fifteen hours a day. It feels like someone's trying to surgically remove my liver with a toothpick. What do you honestly think?_

_27Booty says: I think that when you go to New York, you should pull another one over the feds for the time they pranked us and swapped all of our field uniforms for women's lingerie._

Yamamoto remembers that incident. He also remembers how at home Sir Peacock was in a tight G-string. The ordeal had lasted for a whole week.

_Mr. Suave says: what do u want me to do?_

_27Booty says: you're going to New York to pick up Reborn's dry cleaning, right?_

_Mr. Suave says: I resent that you twerp_

_27Booty says: go to the Museum of Modern Art while ur at it_

_Mr. Suave says: I am not picking anything up for your boytoy_

_Mr. Suave says: and why would I go to an art museum?_

_27Booty says: because, dipshit, they're hosting a Van Gogh viewing the week after you're done in London. All the feds will be there. Wouldn't it be funny if they unveiled the Starry Night and it turned out to be some chicken shit drawing done by a three year old?_

_Mr. Suave says: are you implying that my artistic abilities are chicken shit?_

_27Booty says: that's exactly what im implying mate_

_Mr. Suave says: fuck off_

_27Booty says: think about it! It'll be fun! Do it!_

_27Boot says: c'mon_

_27Booty says: you know you wanna_

_27Booty says: Yamamoto?_

**Your conversation partner has been disconnected.**

_27Booty says: …jerk_

* * *

The sad thing is, Yamamoto does think about it, because he can't draw to save his life and it would be riotously hilarious if the FBI were to realize that one of the most famous paintings in the world were to be stolen under their nose. His skills extend to the use of crayons, and even then he's sure his five-year-old cousin is more capable then he is. Besides, it'll make his pathetic job here in England ten times funnier when he can buy a pack of crayons down at the craft store and doodle all over the back of his mission dossier.

His target makes a big move the day before he's scheduled to leave for the States, and Yamamoto happily leaps out across the street to gun him down. The downside is: he has to pack and run immediately after, because apparently the Yard is not as scattered-brained as he's come to think of them and his 'wanted' status is still offering a lot of money for his capture. He makes it on the plane headed for New York City exactly fifty-five minutes before the authorities catch up with him and enjoys champagne on the flight. He definitely thinks about Tsuna's suggestion, and asks the flight attendant for a box of crayons as well.

He makes it to New York three days before the actual viewing and vacantly scouts the Museum of Modern Art. If he's going to be honest, it really is a wonderful place. Yamamoto almost feels bad about stealing from them, but not bad enough to let a chance at pranking the FBI go. That's him, mature, manly International Superspy and two-year winner of Shimon Magazine's Sexiest Man of the Year award. Who's been mentally scarred by the sight of Sir Peacock wearing electric blue booty shorts.

The evening before the viewing, he gleefully colours a massive portrait of the Starry Night with all the blue crayons he could find in the multi-pack from the Dollar Store, and packs up all his supplies. The next evening, he showers early and changes into his tuxedo, because Americans can be so endlessly serious about all these formal events and Yamamoto is already anticipating _his_ dry cleaning bill.

The front gallery is packed with individuals that would rack up in billions of dollars if they were ever kidnapped for ransom, all dressed in the latest fashions and holding thick art pamphlets that Yamamoto knows they won't bother to read. He breezes in under the alias of Tadashi Sumoshi, owner of a large oil company in the islands of Japan and a fan of European Art. He smiles and kisses the hands of many women and winks at a couple others before making his way over to pluck a flute of champagne from the towering tray of refreshments in the corner. Along the way, he accidentally bumps into another Asian man.

"Sorry," Yamamoto apologizes, moving aside. The man he'd run into gives him a truly chilling glare before turning on his heel and vanishing without a word. Yamamoto stares after him, momentarily displaced. What an asshole.

He wanders around and susses out the Feds, keeping a low profile until there's only twenty minute before the viewing begins. Yamamoto has this planned out perfectly. At 6:40 on the dot, he casually walks into the men's room, and after doing a quick sweep for bugs and any possible toilet-users, locks the door with ease. It's like every clichéd spy movie— under his three-piece is his thermal neutralizing suit that Giannini invented a while back. The crayon version of _Starry Night_ is tucked neatly into a canister that Yamamoto retrieves from its pre-positioned location in the cleaning cabinet and carefully slid over his shoulder. He folds his suit into a small bundle and buries it into the bottom of the trash can before entering a stall, hopping up onto the toilet, pushing open one of the plasters in the ceiling and easing himself into the hollow space.

It's dusty and dark until he switches on his light, illuminating the entire tunnel with a mellow blue-white glow. Yamamoto slides the ceiling back in place and crawls forward with practiced movements, cautious not to place too much weight on one part of boards. It would be a repeat of Moscow that he would gladly never have again.

Because he's obviously the world's most BAMF spy, Yamamoto's memorized the entire floor plan of the museum to the point where he knows where to crawl to in the semi-darkness without ever being holed up in the ceiling before. It's not even a photographic memory, like Lieutenant Boxer. Who's constantly loud about how well he memorizes things. He creeps and slides as soundlessly as a snake on silk, hearing the distanced murmurs of the gathering and noises from various pipes or machinery running by him. It's so smooth and so typical of a job that when Yamamoto slithers around the corner to the panel right over the currently empty display room, he honestly does not expect to run into another person coming around the other corner.

Another person is crawling through the ceiling with him.

…fuck.

It happens fast and silently— the black-clad figure is on him in an instant, barely giving Yamamoto a chance to respond. His plated front saves him from being gutted but it's like an iron-clad punch consolidated into one tiny point right above his solar plexus, and it hurts like _hell_. Yamamoto curls backwards and kicks out, catching his enemy in the shoulders and sending him sprawling backwards so hard dust ought to have shaken from the ceiling below them.

In the tight space they lunge at each other with a type of stealth that helps Yamamoto immediately disassociate his foe from being a mere underground art thief; the other's movements are too quick, too precise, too practiced, just like his own. It's trained and lethal, like a throwing knife. It prompts him to think of the Millefiore, or the FBI, but if his opponent is really a fed then it's _on_, because copying the tiny missiles shooting out of the fog lights had been one thing, but ceiling-sneaking had a big fat SPY COPYRIGHT on it somewhere and was _not_ up for grabs!

His momentary drift in thought costs him dearly. The ninja-guy-creeper-thing lashes out, catching Yamamoto's ankle and causes him to lose his balance. He falls, hard, and with an almighty _crunch_ his butt breaks right through the delicate ceiling panels. He barely saves himself from falling through by grabbing one of the massive pipes above, gloves sweeping dust onto his face.

"You wanker," he hisses in a muffled voice at his adversary. "My _ass_ went through this! The feds could trace my ass-print back to my base!"

"Serves you right, I was here first, herbivore," the shadow snarls back, equally soft. Apparently their desire to remain hidden is mutual, not that it's going to ease Yamamoto's temper in any way right now.

"Damn," he spits, wiggling a little. A bit of plaster falls onto the ground below.

"Shut up, you're loud as fuck," the weirdo snarks back evilly— they sound like a male, but Yamamoto isn't going to put a label on someone without double checking first, not since Lady Bianchi and the Great Pot of Death Dumplings incident and even then a spy's identity is worth questioning. The other guy is starting to slide away now. Yamamoto's dignified rage flared. With a great heave and a lot of crunching eight-pack muscles, he launches himself up and tackles the other man.

He barely has a moment to feel intensely satisfied at himself for gaining the upper hand before he hears a high-pitched creaking noise as the entire chunk of ceiling under his enemy's back breaks off, sending them hurtling down. It's Moscow all over again, except with more limbs and more plaster.

Yamamoto's sure they're fucked— any American agent worth his ejector-seat sports car would come running in with a massive wave of back up. But as luck would have it, catering chooses the exact moment to simultaneously pop open fifteen bottles of champagne that lets loose a POW! like a canon shot. It takes all of his spy-honed instincts to sort each of these factors out as Yamamoto tastes the spike of zero-gravity before he twists through the air and lands like a cat, making a soft noise that even a stuffed animal dropping onto the plushest carpet could not achieve. The display room is dimly lit by yellow lamps on the walls, casting long shadows over the works of art covered in white sheets, waiting to be shown. Across from him, his foe regains his footing just as expertly, that buttface.

They face off, a little warily, until Yamamoto breaks the silence again.

"What're you here for, twerp?"

"Nothing you need," the other hisses back, circling slowly to his right. Yamamoto mimics him, matching step for step. He carefully slides the canister off his back, not missing how his foe twitches in reaction before he realizes it's not a threat yet. Yup, definitely a spy.

"I'm here to play, uh, a prank," Yamamoto whispers and damn it, he sounds stupider than ever saying that out loud. He can't see it, but he thinks the other guy raises an eyebrow.

"A prank." It's not even worth questioning, Yamamoto bemoans to himself. He'll be the laughingstock of V if this ever gets out.

"Look, you do your thing, I do mine, and we both get out without being seen, okay?" he half-pleads. God, Yamamoto never begs. This is going to ruin him.

"Only herbivores will stoop down to such low levels of imploring," the other sneers, but his stance relaxes fractionally. It's only until he eases upright that Yamamoto knows two things: the man isn't going to attack, and—

"You're from V," Yamamoto splutters, pointing at the suit. It's an updated version of his current wardrobe, with an extra side pocket and an inflatable pant leg for any water-related situations. There's no logo, of course, how stupid would that be? It would be like asking for a headshot.

"You didn't know?" the voice is now condescending, and it grates on Yamamoto's nerves like sandpaper sprinkled with hot chili flakes over an open wound.

"It was dark!"

"I knew you were from V," the spy snaps back, glancing around the room.

"You knew I was one of you and you attacked me?!" Yamamoto nearly cries, outraged. His fellow colleague fixed him with an icy glare.

"You're weak. I will bite you to death."

"How the heck did you pass the psych evaluation test?" Yamamoto growls as he unscrews the lid off his canister. The crayon-version of _Starry Night_ is rolled onto the ground.

"I didn't pass it; that's how you _make it into_ V, stupid." Apparently the spy's found what he wanted, which turns out to be an envelope taped under a bench in the corner of the room. "Dear god, what is this blinding piece of shit? Did a three year old hold a chicken while it scratched blue wax onto the paper?"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Yamamoto snaps as he patiently stalks over to his targeted painting and whips the sheet back to reveal it in all its glory. However, Yamamoto is not an art fan, and could not care less about cracking open the frame of the original so that he could slot his lovely masterpiece in.

"You're vandalizing," the other agent says, low and annoyed.

"Fuck you, you uneducated shit," Yamamoto says, adopting a sarcastic wise tone of voice. He rolls the real painting up and slides it into his canister before draping the sheet back over it, and when he turns around the other is staring at him through the tinted goggles of the suit. It's unnerving.

The other V spy glares. "Listen up, you insolent little—"

Of course, it would be the perfect moment for a slightly tipsy fed to walk in, mistaking the display room was a restroom, and to freeze in their tracks. Everything halts for a very long second.

"Oh_, _crap," Yamamoto breathes, and breaks into a sprint for the window, the other spy hot on his heels.

"Hey!" the marshal yells, drawing his gun. Two bullets streak past them and saved Yamamoto the job of breaking through reinforced glass, so the two of them hurtle out of the building and lands head-first into a massive willow tree.

"Oh my god," Yamamoto groans, twisting through thick branches and pesky vines before he drops onto sweet, mercifully flat ground with his enemy-now-turned-runaway-partner-in-crime.

"Run, herbivore!" the other snarls, and they scamper down the street to the sounds of police sirens wailing after them.

* * *

Because luck is not necessarily on Yamamoto's side, it starts to rain as they dash down the sidewalk in ninja suits that are not as warm as one would think. Yamamoto's going to have a few words with Giannini when he gets back.

They run for thirteen blocks before they sneak into the closest building to duck into the nearest bathroom, panting and wiping rainwater off their faces with the sleeves of their suits.

"This," the other spy snarls, "is the stupidest herbivore shit I've ever done in my life. I've never had to bail like this before. I use the front fucking door when I finish a mission!"

"Hard luck, mate," Yamamoto growls back as he yanks his hood off, relishing in the stale air of cleaning detergents and wet floors. He's sweaty and tired, and he is never ever _ever_ doing anything Tsuna says ever again. Ever. He turns to bitch at the other spy, only to find himself face to face with the rude Asian man he'd accidentally bumped into while he was wandering around at the party in the main reception area.

"You!" Yamamoto cried, outraged.

"Me," the other said calmly, running a gloved hand through his flattened raven hair. Up close, Yamamoto revels in the spy's image—he's actually really good looking. Sharp eyes, angular jaw, a long, straight nose and a thin mouth. His skin had a no-sun quality to it and looked smoother than a model's. Not fair, Yamamoto silently laments.

"Who the hell are you, anyway?" he ventures to ask even though they don't have a lot of time.

"Should you really be bothering with such herbivorous questions right now?" the spy snaps, banging through the stalls for some toilet paper. "We need a change of clothes. And I am so reporting you to Reborn."

"Wait, you're in my division?" Yamamoto gapes, mouth hanging open.

"Of course I am, dipshit, I'm Agent 18!" Agent 18 snarls, chucking the wad of used paper into the trash can. "Are you actually as stupid as you look?"

"I resent that," Yamamoto replies out of reaction, beyond stunned. Agent 18? This pompous, frigid little asshole was _the_ Agent 18? The one who took down and merged the Koukyo Gang with their organization? The legendary agent who even Reborn respects? Good god, the world was ending.

Sudden voices coming from the other side of the door jolts them. Yamamoto grabs his things and leaps for the blind spot around the wall while Agent 18 slides into the shadows behind the door, and just as two happily conversing men carrying suits with them walks in Agent 18 knocks them out with well-placed karate-chops onto the back of their necks. The civilians slumped without knowing what hit them.

"Clothes," Agent 18 hisses, grabbing one of the dove-grey lumps and chucks it at Yamamoto, who wastes no time in stripping off his gloves so he could yank the suit on top of his ninja outfit. It was slightly tight around the shoulders, making him feel like a penguin. Agent 18 is dragging on a truly heinous burgundy-coloured three-piece, wincing as he does so. Hah, Yamamoto thinks savagely. Serves him right.

"We're leaving," Agent 18 says harshly, as though reading his thoughts. "_Now_."

Yamamoto didn't argue. The two of them drag the bodies into the stall and abandons the scene quickly, doing their best to adopt casual poses. Yamamoto makes sure to grab the canister with the painting before the sneak out of the bathroom. The hallway they went through was mostly empty, but there were a few groups of people in the main hallway. Yamamoto is startled to see that several women are dressed in wedding gowns.

"Oh my god, 18, you've led us to a freaking church!" Yamamoto hisses.

"Are you dumb?" Agent 18 snarls back under his breath. "This is a Registry Building!"

"What the fuck? That's government grounds! That's even worse!"

"Shut up!"

Outside, distantly, Yamamoto picks up the sound of police sirens, and freezes. Agent 18 goes as still as a statue as well.

"Quick, this way!" Yamamoto muttered, taking a sharp right. Agent 18 follows him, and the two of them breeze past another group of to-be married couple and their families. Behind them, there are the sounds of a many heavy-booted footsteps. They pick up their pace.

"We're gonna get caught," Agent 18 snaps. "Stop moving!"

They come to a complete halt at the end of a line, where a couple in front of them is filling in several sheets of paper.

"You keep looking behind your shoulder," Yamamoto growls. "Of course they're going to see you!"

"Keep your voice down, you mutant monkey."

"Oh, that's rich, coming from a frigid bitch!"

Agent 18 whirls around, eyes dangerously bright as he says in a low, dangerous voice, "Are you picking a fight?" just as the couple before them scream with happiness and leap into each other's arms, three police officers walk into the hallway, and the government official behind the desk calls out in a bored voice, "Next!"

"Shit," Yamamoto groans.

"Out of our way, herbivores," Agent 18 snarls, violently shoving the kissing husband and wife aside as he stalked up to the little booth. "We're getting married," he growls at the clerk, who doesn't even bat an eyelash as he flips a page over. Yamamoto, however, nearly chokes on his tongue.

"Names?" the clerk asks, monotone. He's chewing gum.

"Hibari Kyoya," Hibari says snappishly, and then turns to glare at Yamamoto expectantly.

"Oh hell no," Yamamoto hisses. "I'm not marrying you!"

"Name?" the clerk asks, a little impatiently. The three officers are making their way steadily up the hall, glancing at the groups of people waiting in lines. Yamamoto grits his teeth.

"Yamamoto Takeshi," he spits. His real name feels foreign on his tongue, and surprisingly, that fact bothers him a lot.

"Ages?" the clerk muttered, scribbling the information down.

"Twenty-four," Yamamoto says at the same time Hibari mumbles, "Twenty-five."

"Dates of birth?" the clerk asks, popping his gum. Yamamoto feels like popping the guy's neck.

"What is this, an interrogation?" he demanded. The clerk looks up, unamused.

"Look, man, this is standard protocol. Do you want to get married or not?"

"May 5th," Hibari nearly shouts and Yamamoto grudgingly says, "April 24th."

"Alright," the clerk drones as he writes something else down, and then spins the notepad towards them. "Sign here, here, and here. Please tick the boxes where applicable, choose yes or no to the terms and conditions, sign in the highlighted boxes ONLY, or where applicable, then fill in the information below only if you are a landed immigrant, a refugee, or a travelling circus troupe, and then sign again at the very bottom."

"Give me another pen," Yamamoto snaps as Hibari snatches up the first one, scrawling a bunch of information down. Yamamoto squeezes his hand in and checks everything without reading it, fingers brushing against Hibari's occasionally due to the close proximity. He determinedly refuses to think about this.

"Disapproving in-laws on their way?" the clerk asks dryly as Yamamoto shoves the notepad under his nose the second they finish.

"That and more," Hibari says darkly, stealing a glance behind them. The officers are only two lines away, peering into the confused people's faces. Behind the desk, the clerk starts to print off their certificates.

"C'mon, hurry it up," Yamamoto snaps. The clerk gives him a scowl.

"Just a minute, sir—"

"Can't you see we're in a rush?!"

"Shut up!" Hibari snarls, punching Yamamoto in the arm. It feels like an ox just ran into him.

"One more second, misters—"

"For fuck's sake," Yamamoto growls.

"Quiet!" Hibari snaps.

"Excuse me, sir," a police officer says from right behind Hibari just as the clerk slides the certificates over. Yamamoto snatches one up, bellows, "WE'RE MARRIED!" and grabs Hibari by the collar, yanking him savagely over for a kiss. Hibari flails his arms and smacks Yamamoto in the face by accident, but he quickly grabs the lapels of Yamamoto's hideous suit and kisses back, wet and messy and furiously. Yamamoto could practically feel the punches the agent will rain on him in the future, but hey, whatever, if this means the police isn't going to look, screw it.

Around them people are applauding, god knows why, and Hibari's fighting him fiercely for the upper hand, sticking his tongue on the underside of Yamamoto's lip while Yamamoto purposefully drools onto Hibari's cheek. It is so gross it's not even funny.

The officer blushes a little, avoiding the agents, and then waves his men on, peering around the lines of people past them. Yamamoto and Hibari stay glued together, eyes wide open and darting to the side to keep the officers in their line of vision. Hibari's face is so close it's just a weird blob of colour in Yamamoto's left eye, and their teeth keep bumping together.

Finally, after what felt like years, the policeman calls, "Clear!" and they hurry out of the hall, presumably to search elsewhere. Yamamoto and Hibari leap apart at once, gasping for breath while wiping saliva off their red, swollen lips.

"Oh my _fuck_," Yamamoto pants, spitting disgustedly to the side. "Never again!"

"You," Hibari growls, positively feral, "Will _pay_ for this, herbivore!"

They straighten up, glaring at each other. It is impossible to tell which face held more hate.

"That'll be 185.99$ for service fees, if you please," the clerk says, and pops his gum.

* * *

_Part One End_


	2. Chapter 2

80 and Agent 18

Hibari's Bonsai Tree: /_images/brazilian_rain_

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn. Any similarities in events or characters living or dead are entirely coincidental.

Enjoy!

* * *

_Chapter Two_

This is how Yamamoto ends up hungover in his apartment back in Italy three days later with Tsuna shouting obscene things at him while the brunette tries to wipe hot coffee off his cardigan. This is how his brand-new wedding certificate is now tacked onto his wall with a kitchen knife, a letter opener, and sixteen darts stuck into it. This is how the _Starry Night_ is leaning against his coat rack as though it's not the most famous missing piece of art at the moment. This is how, very, very sadly, he ends up married to Agent 18, Hibari fucking Kyoya, of all people.

This is also how Yamamoto discovers that, apparently, he's not allowed to divorce Agent 18.

"What the fuck do you mean we can't get a divorce?!" he thunders, slamming his hands down on Reborn's desk. Hibari hasn't moved an inch next to him, but Yamamoto can tell he's only seconds away from launching a killing spree.

"It means you can't get a divorce, dipshit," Reborn replies, leaning cryptically back in his giant chair. With his stupid fedora on it looks like a mob meeting. "This is for the good of the Organization. Plus you're hardly the first agents to get married. There's Madame Six and Signore Nine—"

"I'm pretty sure they're actually brother and sister," Yamamoto snarls. "It's incest!"

"— Lieutenant Boxer and Mademoiselle Hana tied the knot last year—"

"Hana's tried to kill Lieutenant Boxer sixty-eight times this month already," Yamamoto interrupts irritably.

"— So I suppose you're our first gay couple, so congrats, or whatever. You actually beat me and Tsuna to it. I hope you're happy with yourselves."

"Omnivore," Hibari growls, "Why can't we get a divorce? There's no reason why we should stay together!"

"On the contrary," Reborn says very seriously, "I think that this whole marriage thing will do you two quite a bit of good. Yamamoto, you can learn to stop being a womanizer—"

"For fuck's sake, Reborn, I'm gay! How can I be a womanizer!"

"— and Hibari, you're emotionally constipated, so think of this as a great way to discover your inner dancer or something. Either way, this isn't up for discussion, so I'm ordering the two to take a mandatory honeymoon for two weeks until you can stand each other's presence. No arguments!" he adds, glaring as Yamamoto and Hibari immediately open their mouths to argue. "This is not up for discussion."

"I have rights, you know," Yamamoto grinds out flatly, crossing his arms.

"No you don't. They were sucked out of you along with your soul the minute you joined V. Now get out, it's lunchtime and I have a date."

"You're an A-plus asshole," Yamamoto seethes, balling his hands into fists. Reborn smiles dryly at that.

"I try, Yamamoto," he says with mock modesty. "I try."

And that, apparently, had been the end of that.

Miss Kyoko, at Agent Resources, is much like the clerk at the government registry building, except she doesn't pop gum in people's faces and she's much lovelier to talk to. Yamamoto wishes he could marry her instead.

"Sign here, please," she says, smiling gently. "We'll have your new legally wedded status in our database, then."

"I resent this," Yamamoto informs her as he scribbles his signature into the paper. Hibari copies Yamamoto, but he signs so ferociously he tears a hole in the document. Yamamoto rolls his eyes.

"Thank you very much," Miss Kyoko says cheerfully, tucking everything away into a folder with practiced movements. "I hear Reborn's given the two of you fourteen days off for your honeymoon? Do you want me to look up some nice travel destinations? Venice is beautiful at this time of the year. The Canary Islands are nice too."

"We're not going on vacation," Hibari snaps.

"I'm not interested in going anywhere with this twat," Yamamoto adds irritably. Miss Kyoko shrugs a shoulder before saying, "Alright, where will you two be staying then? I'll input this into your vacation time."

"I don't own a residence in Italy," Hibari interjects stiffly. There was an awkward pause.

"You don't?" Yamamoto asks, frowning. "Where do you live then?"

"Japan, moron," Hibari hisses.

"But aren't V agents apparently locked out of Japan right now because of that failed deal with the Yakuza?"

"Yes," Hibari grits, burning holes into the desk with his glare. It takes a moment for his words to sink in, and then, Yamamoto bursts out laughing.

"Oh my god, you're homeless! You can't go back to Japan and now you're actually homeless in Italy!"

"Fuck off, herbivore, or I'll bite you to death!" Hibari bellows, punching Yamamoto in the stomach.

"Well, I guess he'll have to stay at your place then, Yamamoto?" Miss Kyoko interjects, amused.

Yamamoto has never sobered up so fast in his life.

* * *

Let it be known that the grapevine in Organization V has a kind of efficiency that even celebrity magazines can't even dream of having, so it's no surprise that Yamamoto gets approximately twenty-two texts, eighteen emails and four voicemails all either congratulating him, laughing at him, or promising to show up at his funeral when Agent 18 finally kills him all within the same day Hibari moves in. It's a bit put-offing to know some people think he'd go down that easy and that none of them have the guts to message Hibari. Granted, Yamamoto wouldn't message him either after seeing the type of mood the raven can descend into after only an afternoon of moving Hibari's limited amount of things into Yamamoto's flat.

Yamamoto doesn't expect guests, let alone a _husband_. He's completely unprepared to spend his stupid two-week honeymoon in his own apartment; so naturally, Yamamoto doesn't even have a guest room. But he's also not that much of a gentlemen, so he's sure as hell not sleeping on his own couch. Especially for Hibari Kyoya.

"You have a king sized bed," Hibari hisses as he slams his Bonsai tree onto the coffee table, which is partially obscured by take-out boxes and several discarded mission folders.

"I'm not sharing with you," Yamamoto sneers.

"Tough luck," Hibari snorts. "I'm not sleeping on a couch."

And their conversations continue like that for the remainder of the night. They bicker over what to order for dinner, snip irritably at what to play on television, and sneer at the type of toothpaste the other uses. It's so domestic it hurts. When bedtime rolls around, Hibari interrupts Yamamoto's typical military-style position with a starfish pose. By the third morning of waking up to a hand on his face, Yamamoto has had enough.

"I've had enough!" he bellows at Reborn as the Italian regards him with a bored look. "I've had it, I'm done. I don't know what convinced you to think that we'd be good together, because we can't even keep things civil over whether or not the bedroom door should be shut when we sleep. I can't take it. I'm done with this. I need to get a divorce."

"You guys sleep together on the same bed?" Reborn asks, looking surprised.

"We do not!" Yamamoto hastens to yell, but the damage's done, if Reborn's widening grin is anything to go by.

"Wow, I would've thought somebody would end up on the couch for the first week or so. But you're already sharing body heat by the third day! This is progress, even if you're unwilling to admit it."

"It is not progress," Yamamoto growls. "The prick just dumped himself into my sleeping space and I'm forced to accommodate. It's not fair."

"You're whining."

"I am not."

"You sound like a three year old."

"Shut up!"

"Look, just what is so bad about living with Hibari?" Reborn groans, running a hand across his face. "Sure, maybe he doesn't rinse the stubble out of the sink after he shaves or whatever, but you can deal with it. You squatted in a rat-infested frat house for two months when stalking Genkishi from the Millefiore Mob. You spent a week in London. Tsuna told me you compared it with having your liver surgically removed with a toothpick."

"Yes, and that's not the point," Yamamoto huffs. "Hibari is ridiculous. He's got this stupid little tree that needs to be adjusted every day to track the sun's light. He needs to meditate for at least an hour every morning and if I make one measly noise, he'll try and shoot me. He picks the onions out of his salad. He snores when he sleeps on his back, which is always. He complains about the way I stack my DVDs. He complains about the way I set up my laptop. He takes forty five minutes to just shower in the mornings, and yes, he doesn't rinse the stubble out of the sink when he's done shaving."

Reborn raises an eyebrow. "If only you could submit paperwork with that level of detail," the older man remarks dryly.

"I want a divorce." Yamamoto growls.

"No. Go home and sort out your marriage problems. And for heaven's sake stop bugging me every time you get into a lover's spat. Talk to Tsuna sometime, he doesn't have reports to file and spies to direct through Russian nuke labs."

"Thanks for nothing," Yamamoto snaps before he marches out of the office. "And we're not having a lover's spat!" he shouts over his shoulder after a moment's consideration.

"Sure thing," Reborn calls, and he sounds like he's trying very hard not to laugh. Asshat, Yamamoto thinks savagely.

* * *

"We need to sort out our marriage problems," Yamamoto announces the moment he walks back into his apartment with a giant bottle of Jack Daniel's wrapped up in a brown paper bag. He has a feeling that he's going to need it. Hibari doesn't look up from whatever he's reading on a sheet of paper as he growls, "Shut up. I'm reading here."

"I said, we need to sort out our marriage problems," Yamamoto snaps, and he yanks the paper out of Hibari's hands. The raven finally makes eye contact, though he has a rather murderous expression on his face.

"Thought you didn't want to get married to me?" Hibari says nastily, leaning back into the leather couch. The creaking noise of the fabric makes it sound like he's farting and Yamamoto is sorely tempted to give into his immature side and make a snide joke about that.

"Yeah, well, I'm also not the boss of V," he replies shortly, tossing the letter onto the coffee table. "We need to set out some boundaries if this stupid thing is going to work out."

"Or I could just kill you with acid and take over your apartment," Hibari offers.

"My flat is big," Yamamoto sneers. "You'll be lonely as fuck. Oh, wait, you have that stupid tree with you, so maybe you could share your feelings about murdering me with it."

"I will eviscerate you," Hibari snarls, and they glare at each other for another moment.

"Fine," Yamamoto hisses. "I'm an adult; I can do this in a mature fashion. First of all, I like to wake up without a hand in my face every morning, so stay on your side of the bed. I set up my laptop however I like, and you can work on your tablet wherever the hell you want. I only take five minutes to shower so for heaven's sake either let me wash up first in the mornings or don't take so long. Learn to sort out your recycling and lastly, you can do your meditation in the bedroom while I go out for my morning run so neither of us has to go at it like savage dogs, alright?"

Hibari sits quietly for a moment, eyes narrowed, and for a second Yamamoto thinks the raven's going to shout. Then he says, levelly, "I know how to recycle."

Yamamoto rolls his eyes. "For the last time, the bottle cap goes in the garbage, not the blue bin."

Hibari frowns like it's something new to him before he glares, sharp and fierce. "Very well. If I must do all that then you'll have to go by my terms as well. You're a blanket hog, so either get me another duvet or stop yanking everything onto your side. When you work on your computer, turn down the volume so it doesn't make that annoying pinging noise every time Sawada messages you. Don't drink the milk right out of the carton, that's disgusting as fuck. Also, if you keep leaving your sweaty shirts on the floor when you come back from your jog I will cut you up, herbivore."

Yamamoto gapes. For a minute, he feels the need to punch Hibari and defend himself with a lot of swearing, but after a second all that comes out is, "I do not hog the blankets."

Hibari gives him a _bitch please_ look, and Yamamoto snaps out of it. "Fine, we've laid out some ground rules. I have no intentions of failing them."

Snorting, Hibari reclines back into the sofa. "Is this some kind of a mission to you?"

"That's an interesting way to put it," Yamamoto grumbles darkly. "Look, you twat, if I'm going to be stuck with you for at least another week I'd rather ignore you every day than engage in a no-holds fistfight over which bin the soda can goes into."

"Sounds about right," Hibari mutters, and goes back to reading his paper. Yamamoto pops out his alcoholic beverage and takes a huge gulp accompanied by a long-suffering sigh. He suppose that could've gone much worse, but that doesn't mean he'll deny his liquor. After a couple more swallows, he finds himself thinking back to all the things Hibari said. _Do I really hog the blanket?_ Yamamoto wonders, gazing blankly up at the ceiling.

As it turns out, yes, he does hog the blanket. That discovery happens when he wakes up to what felt like laser beams burning into his back, only to realize that it's Hibari sitting up and glaring at him. A second later, Yamamoto discovers he's got the thick blanket wound up around him like a cocoon.

"What the fuck," he mutters, and unravels himself to toss the other half back at the raven. Hibari takes it wordlessly, and they tuck back in for a couple more minutes of lazy snoozing.

On another day, Yamamoto's in the kitchen fixing himself an espresso when he hears the usual _ping!_ noise the chat program makes every time somebody messages him. For a moment he doesn't think much about it, until another _ping!_ happens. And then another. And another. Tsuna is obviously a fan of sending broken messages, and to Yamamoto's own surprise he actually realizes how loud his computer is. Momentarily abandoning his drink, he strolls into his office and mutes his laptop completely, heading back out to grab his mug once he did. Hibari looks up at him from the couch, and there's a curious expression on his face. Yamamoto shrugs a bored shoulder before heading back to work again.

Later that afternoon, he's reaching into the fridge for the carton while completely immersed into a John le Carré novel when Yamamoto remembers what he'd promised Hibari about drinking straight from the milk carton a few days ago. Unfortunately, his poor confused brain tells him to pour it into a cup just as his arm lifts the carton to pour into his mouth. That mostly resulted in Yamamoto pouring milk all over himself and the book. Hibari, to the agent's credit, didn't laugh when he looked up from the newspaper to see Yamamoto standing in a puddle of milk.

Thus, things actually improved from there. The sweaty shirt Yamamoto strips off after every run is tossed into the laundry hamper, his laptop stays obediently silent, and the milk is poured into a cup every time Yamamoto feels like getting his calcium. Eventually, after going grocery shopping at the end of the week, he drops by the home furniture store to make a few purchases. If Hibari notices an extra blanket on the bed that evening, he doesn't say anything about it.

But perhaps the most surprising thing of all was the fact that Hibari was actually actively going along with the things Yamamoto had initially complained about. In the mornings, he found the raven tucked neatly into his own blanket on exactly his half of the bed, though still sprawled like a starfish. Mysteriously, breakfast for the agent seems to take longer to finish and Yamamoto finds himself showering bright and early before the bathroom is taken over completely for the next hour. Recyclables and garbage start going into the correct bins, and before Yamamoto leaves for his jog, Hibari is already making himself comfortable on a yoga mat on the floor of their bedroom.

Yamamoto is, as Tsuna so helpfully points out when the brunette drops by for a customary visit bearing new gadgets from HQ, turning domestic.

"You _are_," Tsuna gapes in awe. "Good god, Agent 18 has completely de-magnetized you or something, or sucked all the danger out of you."

"I am not going domestic," Yamamoto sniffs indignantly as he turns over a laser-shooting statue. "We've just set some boundaries."

"Is that your disgusting dirty laundry actually in the basket, where it's supposed to be?"

"I'm just trying to keep my place tidy," Yamamoto hisses, poking at a vase that launches ninja stars.

"Your coffee table is no longer covered with crap."

"His stupid tree needs space, alright!"

Tsuna raises an eyebrow. "Tell me, did you stop drinking milk out of the carton too?"

"How on earth could you possibly know something like that?" Yamamoto splutters, reddening and throwing his hands up. Tsuna bursts into giggles.

"I didn't know, I guessed, you fool. Holy shit, if marriage can cure the awful bachelor that used to be you then I think I should start window shopping for wedding rings for me and Reborn."

"I need a mission," Yamamoto groans, falling backwards onto his couch. "A whole week off is what's making me soft. I need to go on car chases and scout nightclubs for information! Not sitting at home fixing dinner and watching the television."

"Maybe it's time to settle down," Tsuna says wisely, sipping at his tea with his pinky sticking out. "You can't always live life in the fast lane, you know."

Yamamoto glares heatedly. "Shut up and help me set up all the new defensive equipment you brought, you twat." Tsuna grumbles, but he helps Yamamoto shuffle around anyway, carefully putting up the statue in the living room, the vase in the kitchen, and several motion-sensor peppery-spray plants that included Gianni's new spy product: chili spray. Forget pepper spray; this was a five-alarm jalapeño formula and was guaranteed to cause some form of temporary blindness for an hour or five. There is also an umbrella stand that needs to be decoded when you enter or lest your apartment would go up in flames because of a big-ass explosion. Yamamoto learns the code quick because he really doesn't want to blow up his flat, and makes a mental note to remind Hibari.

"Where is Hibari, anyway?" Tsuna asks once they'd finished. "I was hoping he'd lend me his exploding pen."

"That's an MI6 thing, Tsuna, stop getting your hopes up," Yamamoto sighs, and Tsuna pouts comically. "And to answer your question, I don't know where he is. He just goes off on his own sometimes."

"And you're not bothered by that?" Tsuna asks in incredulous surprise. Yamamoto shrugs a shoulder.

"Should I be?" he asks.

"What the hell, Yamamoto, of course you should be!" Tsuna cries, leaping up. "You're married, for crying out loud! And far too trusting. What if he's making shady deals with someone or secretly selling you out? Or worse, what if Hibari's actually straight? What if he's sneaking around behind your back with some hot chick? This could be dangerous stuff!"

Yamamoto stares at him. "How is him possibly cheating worse than selling me out? You need to sort out your priorities. Sometimes I wonder whether or not you're actually a spy or just some gay guy in a reality show."

"I've killed eighteen men using a just a ballpoint pen with my hands cuffed behind my back," Tsuna says coolly. "Do not test me. I can ruin you."

Yamamoto rolls his eyes and settles for drinking his tea with a sigh, trying not to wonder about what he's actually doing with his life.

However, for the rest of the day, Yamamoto is horrified to catch himself thinking about where on earth Hibari disappears off to every afternoon. It was a daily thing, and there honestly wasn't a lot of variation in their routine at all. They'd wake up around the same time, eat breakfast together, and then Hibari would go and meditate while Yamamoto went off on his run. After he got back, Yamamoto would either go down to his building's weight rooms to work out or else waste his time on his laptop while Hibari used his tablet or watched some bird documentary on his television. And then, always, in the afternoons, while Yamamoto ate a late lunch or watch the telly on his own, Hibari would go out. He'd always be back before dinner, but there was at least three hours where Yamamoto didn't exactly know where the agent was going off to. It was a little strange, which is obviously the only reason why Yamamoto asks. He's not having trust issues two weeks into a partnership. Obviously not.

"Where'd you head off to today?" he asks casually over a dinner of seafood soup and alfredo pasta.

"None of your business," Hibari replies tersely, and that pretty much should've warned Yamamoto to back right the fuck off but his neglected 80 side is practically screaming for a little bit of danger.

"Well, for my own safety and just general curiosity, I'd say it's plenty my business," Yamamoto shoots back mildly, but Hibari doesn't miss the challenging tone in his voice. This is the problem between alpha male types. It drives Master Fon, their peaceful assassin-sometimes-resident-therapist, insane on the best of days.

"You think I'm selling you out?" Hibari asks, leaning back in his chair, eyes cold. "You think I'm selling V out?"

Yamamoto shrugs. "You said it, not me."

The knife is on the table next to Hibari's hand, and in the next moment it's flying towards Yamamoto's face. Eight years of martial arts and superspy skills saves him from losing an eye, possibly, as Yamamoto grabs the plate of garlic bread and yanks it up as a shield. The knife embeds itself into the plate and it breaks in half, revealing Hibari's expression of pure fury.

"I will not be spoken to like that, herbivore," he snarls. "Betray the Organization? I am not some kind of petty lowlife! Don't mix me in with that kind of scum!"

"Then what the hell are you up to?" Yamamoto shouts back. "I'm a spy, I'm supposed to be paranoid!"

"What I do in my spare time does not concern you, spy or not!"

"What about being married then?" Yamamoto spits out before he could stop himself. "What about being my husband?"

There's a ringing silence. Hibari stares at him, mouth opening to speak, but the verbal abuse that Yamamoto's expecting doesn't come pouring out. His heart is pounding viciously in his chest and an incredulous voice at the back of his head is saying _really? You're pulling the marriage card on this argument?_ A moment later, the raven stands up and pushes his chair back. Hibari leaves the table, and Yamamoto doesn't know what to think. He sits by himself for a very long time, until dinner is cold, and the kitchen is dark.

* * *

He wakes up on the couch the next morning, completely disoriented and stiff, and is startled to discover that Hibari is the reason why he's awake. The man is standing over him like a zombie about to devour an unsuspecting person's brain, though Yamamoto suspects that zombies don't really shower, and don't usually dress in loose track pants and a long shirt. Also, Hibari's doing his laser beam glare again.

"What?" Yamamoto asks, voice cracking like a teenager during puberty. Thankfully, Hibari doesn't snark about that.

"Do you trust me, 80?" Hibari asks seriously, and Yamamoto stares.

"Do I trust you?" he repeats.

"Do you?" Hibari growls, crossing his arms.

"I don't fucking know, why are you asking me?" Yamamoto groans, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

"Have you been investing some kind of feeling into this companionship we have?" Hibari presses on, putting air quotes around the word 'companionship'.

"What the hell? I guess? You're living in my flat, for god's sake."

"Are you in love with me, 80?" Hibari demands, and Yamamoto's jaw drops.

"Am I in— what are you saying!" he splutters, sitting upright now. "Am I— that is a ridiculous question!"

"You're certainly acting very ridiculous," Hibari snaps. "Also, it's not a stupid question; I'm asking this because of the way you reacted yesterday night, herbivore."

"I am not in love with you," Yamamoto spits heatedly. "Why would I love you? We got married to avoid getting arrested in the States, Hibari. There wasn't even a proposal. I drooled purposefully on your face while kissing you to piss you off."

Hibari sneers at him, but to Yamamoto's surprise the raven reaches into his pocket and tosses a folded envelope at him. A moment later, Yamamoto realizes that inside the envelope there is a letter Hibari had been reading the day they hashed out the house rules. Picking it up gingerly, Yamamoto raises an eyebrow. "What's this?"

"This is what I picked up on that night at the Museum of Modern Art," Hibari says shortly, crossing his arms. "Read it."

Yamamoto unfolds the paper carefully and scans the contents. His blood chills. "This is a hit list," he says slowly. "From the Millefiore Mob. On people working in Organization V." The Millefiore Mob has been, to this day, their most notorious enemy. V may be a comical bunch at times, but when it gets down to the Mob things turn deadly serious.

"It is," Hibari replies, monotone. "I went through great lengths to recover it. The tradeoff location was at the museum, where you so pleasantly interrupted my mission with your shenanigans."

Yamamoto looks up, fingers tightening a little on the paper. He sees Reborn's name on there, Tsuna's, and Smoking Bomb's. Madame Six and Signore Nine. Lieutenant Boxer. And—

"That's your name on this list," Yamamoto says, his voice quiet. It feels strange.

"That's right," Hibari confirms. "And that's your name under mine."

There is another moment of silence. "What're we going to do?" Yamamoto asks finally, folding the letter back up. He's not surprised to find his name included on the list, but frankly, he's not worried about a hit from the Millefiore on him as much as the ones on his friends, Hibari included.

No, correction. His _husband_ included.

Hibari grunted. "I've been putting out fires this entire week, moron," he muttered. "It would be a lot easier if I wasn't supposed to be on a vacation, but it's mostly just been paying people off or biting them to death. I've essentially neutralized every threat except yours. Genkishi is a stubborn bastard."

Yamamoto's stomach instantly leaps in eagerness and anticipation. Genkishi, his somewhat-sworn archenemy, is taking over the hit for him. Oh, this is going to get _so_ interesting. Yamamoto scans the list again and frowns, realization dawning on him. This was why Hibari was so upset last night. His work and integrity had been mortally insulted by Yamamoto when the spy asked if the agent was selling Organization V out when, in fact, Hibari is trying to protect them. Of course, this could all be a scam, but for some reason, Yamamoto feels like Hibari's the telling the truth.

That kinda makes him feel like an absolute jerk, so Yamamoto clears his throat and shifts so that he can upright.

"Alright then. I apologize," he says civilly, lacing his fingers together. "I jumped to conclusions yesterday night and offended you. I didn't mean to, and I'd like to thank you for sharing this information with me."

Hibari stares. "Are you running a fever?" he demands.

"It's called being human, look it up," Yamamoto snips back, rolling his eyes. "One apology's all you're getting, alright?" He shoves the letter into Hibari's hands and stands, stretching his back. "Well, since I've got a hit on me, I might as well shower and prepare myself for a bit."

"Hold it right there," Hibari growls, eyes narrowing. "This is my job. I'm supposed to eliminate your hit."

"Well, too bad, so sad!" Yamamoto sing-songs as he skips over a pile of newspapers. "Apparently you've been out and about this entire week while I've been rotting away at home, so the least you can do is include me in the fun."

Hibari stands in the living room, rooted to the spot, before a he smirks, sharp-edged and predatory.

"I hear Genkishi's in town to get ready, as a matter of fact," the raven says nonchalantly. "He's meeting a contact at a restaurant called the _Acrobaleno._ Therefore, as a married couple, we should go on a 'dinner date' there for our one week anniversary."

Yamamoto nearly trips with glee on his way into the bathroom. "I'll leave you to make the reservations then!" he replies cheerfully.

There's always such a wonderful feeling knowing that you're openly violating direct orders from your superior.

* * *

_Part Two End_


	3. Chapter 3

80 and Agent 18

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn. Any similarities in events or characters living or dead are entirely coincidental.

Enjoy!

* * *

_Chapter Three_

_Acrobaleno_ is a high-class, five-star restaurant that has received raves and faves from every critic around the world. Even the Prince of Madagascar had come to try out the food before (though Yamamoto swears he's seen four mysterious penguins-like creatures hovering in the background of the footage). Therefore, it's only reasonable that it takes about a year and a half to make a reservation at the place.

Hibari makes one in fourteen minutes.

"How'd you manage that?" Yamamoto asks as he does up the buttons of his suit, feeling a bit stifled.

"I asked politely," he replies. Yamamoto raises an eyebrow.

"After I threatened bodily harm to the manager and his entire family," Hibari admits, smoothing his bangs back with a bit of hair gel. "And called in a favour from the time I rescued the Queen."

"You rescued the Queen?" Yamamoto asks, other eyebrow going up.

"And had a pint with James Bond afterwards, now hurry up, herbivore, we're going to be late. I didn't use this favour only to waste it because we were behind schedule."

"Aye, aye," Yamamoto replies mildly before tucking his gun into its holster by his side and sliding a short knife into his belt. They drive the Porsche downtown, because it's much more inconspicuous than a personal jet.

They're greeted by a twirly-moustached waiter who leads them to their seat on the indoor balcony of the two-story restaurant, where it gives the two of them a great bird's-eye view of the entire place. The _Acrobaleno_ reeks of modern architecture, contemporary art, delicate glass statues and a winding glass staircase. There's an elaborate waterfall and a pond with an actual crocodile in it. Exotic plants are placed around every corner and Mozart's _Minuet in G_ is playing in the background. Yamamoto shifts. His suit is awkwardly tight and uncomfortable around the crotch area. He knew he should've gone out to get a new ensemble or borrow one of Signore Nine's. It's been a while since he wore his best outfit and apparently he's taller now then, say, 'noob spy Yamamoto' four years ago.

"Stop fidgeting," Hibari hisses, kicking him in the shin under the table. "You look suspicious."

"I'm sorry, man, my junk is getting crushed in my pants," Yamamoto shoots back in a low voice. Hibari snorts into his drink and promptly ends up spitting the gulp back out unattractively because he'd inhaled water up his nose by accident.

"Who's looking suspicious now?" Yamamoto smirks, and Hibari just glares at him as he dabs daintily at the front of his suit, which is cut in such ways that it should be illegal. They'd barely been in the restaurant for ten minutes and Hibari is already getting longing sideways stares from males and females alike.

"Will you please stop glaring at every diner like they're hostiles?" Hibari snaps, folding his hands on the table. His face is neutral but his eyes are doing the laser beam thing again.

"They're staring at you," Yamamoto points out, taking a drink too for a lack of action.

"So?" Hibari asks, glancing down the balcony.

"I'm just playing the role of the jealous husband, don't mind me," Yamamoto shrugs nonchalantly. Hibari looks back at him, eyebrow raised.

"You're jealous? I thought you said you didn't love me." There's a note of smugness in there that chews on Yamamoto's nerve.

"I said I'm _playing_ the part, you fool," he snaps under his breath, face threatening to turn red, but before Hibari could reply their waiter has arrived and handed them their menus. Yamamoto skimmed through the page and ordered the first thing he saw, which turned out to be some salmon dish. Hibari carefully ordered a steak and a bottle of wine before their waiter was off again, promising to be back soon.

"For somebody who's _playing_ you're certainly being serious about it," Hibari mutters, gaze fixed on the entrance.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Yamamoto asks, frowning deeply.

"That means," Hibari sighs, rolling his eyes as he turns to face the spy. In the dim light of the restaurant, his high cheekbones are thrown into sharp relief and the way his smoothed-back hair makes him look twice as intelligent. The suit curves smoothly around Hibari's shoulder and the plum-coloured tie adds a sophisticated touch to the whole ensemble that's making Yamamoto's pants tighten in a way that's wholly not related to his shrunken suit. He shifts uncomfortably again and barely catches the last of what Hibari is saying. When had he zoned out?

"…actually in love with me, I think."

"What, sorry?" Yamamoto splutters, blinking. Hibari bristles irritably.

"I said, I'm pretty sure you're actually in love with me, are you not?"

"I am not in love with you," Yamamoto says at once, even as his voice falters slightly at the end. "I said so this afternoon. This isn't love. This was an accident."

Hibari's eyes narrow minutely. "Really," he says.

"Really," Yamamoto hisses, and damn the way he stutters _again_ on the last syllable. He isn't in love with Hibari. He isn't. There is no possible way he, 80, could ever love—

"Alright then," Hibari says, and then he dumps his napkin onto the table, stands up, and drags Yamamoto upright by his navy blue tie before promptly mashing their mouths together, leaving Yamamoto to let out a very undignified "mrufufuwah?"

This kiss though. This kiss isn't like the one they shared at the registry building. There's no violent biting or excessive drooling; Hibari's tongue slides smoothly into Yamamoto's mouth without him even noticing, that damn agent. The raven's lips are slightly chapped on the bottom lip but nonetheless soft, much softer than any woman Yamamoto's ever kissed before, and there's a kind of pepperminty taste along with a sharp lemon tang from the restaurant's water. The edge of the table is digging right into Yamamoto's hipbone and his hands unconsciously come up to grab onto Hibari's wrist, as if unsure of what to do. Good God, Yamamoto has never been this unsure with a kiss before. It doesn't even make sense.

He also doesn't realize he is actively leaning into the liplock until Hibari pulls back with a slight popping noise, which would be awfully lewd if Yamamoto isn't lost in the blown, ink-black pupils that are Hibari's eyes. The raven smirks and sits back down, leaving Yamamoto standing like an idiot.

"You're in denial," he says smoothly, and takes a drink.

"You little shit," Yamamoto splutters, dropping abruptly down into his chair. "You did that on purpose."

"Of course I did," Hibari snorts. "You need to learn to come into terms with yourself. Do you really hate me that much?"

"I— let me ask you something then," Yamamoto nearly shouts (but he doesn't, of course, he's a spy, discreet, hello). "You keep messing with me and asking me these kinds of questions and you kiss me. Are _you_ in love with me then?"

Hibari stares at him, exasperated. "You absolute idiotic herbivore, do you really think I'd kiss you if I wasn't attracted to you on some level?"

Well.

That was unexpected.

Yamamoto opens his mouth, and then closes it. He opens his mouth again, only to manage out a garbled, "Eh?"

Hibari's eye roll is the most dramatic one yet as he groans, "Christ alive, thank God I didn't go for an actual love confession, I think I might've broken you just by mentioning feelings or something."

"Gapblrhsitngh," Yamamoto splutters, and then the waiter arrives with their food.

Hibari coughs and places the napkin back down on his lap. "Look," he says shortly, but not angrily, "We'll talk later, herbivore. You're hopeless."

Yamamoto finally pulls himself together, heat rising in his cheeks, his mouth lingering with Hibari's taste, and is about to say exactly what he thought of the term 'hopeless' when he sees someone enter the restaurant.

It's Genkishi.

Instantly, Yamamoto is in spy mode. "Look," he says softly, picking up his fork. Hibari stiffens and gives a subtle sidelong glance down the balcony. His black eyes narrow slightly and the corner of his mouth lifts a little, giving him a predatory look, like a carnivorous animal who's just spotted a particularly juicy prey. Yamamoto tries to cross his legs, but his pants are too tight for that.

It's been about a year since Yamamoto last ran into Genkishi 'the Swordsman' of the Millefiore Mob, but his enemy hasn't changed much. His hair is still cut in that ridiculous shell-shape, his eyebrows are still weirdly plucked into clumps, and his mouth is still turned down into that permanent scowl. He's dressed in a slightly bulky suit, probably to compensate for all the knives and daggers hidden on his body. Yamamoto leans in, unconsciously twitching his fingers towards his gun.

"Easy," Hibari murmurs as he pours himself a glass of wine. "Let's see what he's up to first."

Genkishi is led into the restaurant by twirly-moustache, and they lose sight of him momentarily as he walks around a large potted plant. A moment later, he sits down at a table where an attractive, curvy young woman is eating a shrimp plate and a young child— twelve at the oldest— is seated next to her. The woman looks up and starts to say something; Genkishi silences her with a glare. She pouts, muttering something and stabs at a shrimp while the kid plays with a doll. Yamamoto exhales slowly.

"That looks like his contact. What's with the child?"

"She's Iris Hepburn," Hibari mutters, scrolling through something on his phone. He takes a distracted bite of his steak and Yamamoto remembers not to stare too intently. "She's in charge of the Death Stalk Unit. They're mostly drug smugglers and my file says something about mass steroid production."

"The Muscle Scrum Operation that Tsuna took over," Yamamoto says softly. "He ruined them."

"I don't know the kid, but we're not here to focus on him," Hibari hums, tucking his device away. "Let's keep an eye out."

As they watch, Genkishi speaks with Iris while the child ignores them. They talk for several more moments before Iris, quicker than a cat, slips Genkishi a folded envelope, tosses a couple of bills down on the table, and gestures to the child. The kid stands up and grasps her hand before they exit; Iris slinking out in a tight, sparkling pink dress and the kid in some kind of poufy costume. Weirdoes.

Genkishi turns the envelope over, almost inspecting it, and then gets up from his seat. He walks around the corner and vanishes into—

"Bathroom," Yamamoto mutters, standing up instinctively. "Stay here."

"Thought I was supposed to be the one eliminating threats?" Hibari asks, leaning leisurely back in his seat. He's not going to stop Yamamoto.

"Yeah, well, I'll call if I need backup, okay?" Yamamoto grins, buttoning his jacket. His pants hitch uncomfortably around the seams.

"Come back in one piece, herbivore," Hibari drawls, swirling his wine. "We still have to talk."

"That we'll do," Yamamoto grumbles before hurrying along his way. He glides smoothly down the stairs and walks silently into the hallway where the bathrooms are located. After taking a cautionary look around, he ducks into the men's room.

The lights are low and there's soft piano music is playing somewhere. A fountain with a prancing horse lets loose a small stream of water that trickles down a slide and into a extensive waterfall sink that runs right along the wall. The urinals line up against the wall and the stalls have doors that run top to bottom. Yamamoto narrows his eyes and pulls his knife out soundlessly. As efficient as a gun would be, it would make too much noise. He backs up against the stall, taking slow steps, listening carefully for any signs of life. There's nothing but the sound of the fountain and the ambient music, which puts his nerves on end.

Something's not right.

A soft whiff of air by the back of his neck is the only warning Yamamoto has before he reflexively ducks, and a short sword swishes over his head. Yamamoto tucks and rolls, leaping back onto his feet to avoid another violent strike from Genkishi, who'd dropped right out of the ceiling in an attempt to ambush him.

"80," Genkishi growls, straightening up. He huffs distastefully.

"Genkishi," Yamamoto replies, expression cold.

"You've got some nerve coming here alone," Genkishi smirks, slowly stalking up. Yamamoto refuses to back down. "What happened to that agent that was following me?"

"I'm your target," Yamamoto snaps. "Don't you worry about anyone else."

"But I beg to differ," Genkishi grins, and he pulls out the envelope while his sword remains level with Yamamoto. The assassin tears it open with his teeth and waves several rectangular pieces at Yamamoto; a second later he realizes that they were photos of him and Hibari, at home, talking, eating dinner, and apparently physically wrestling over the television remote. Yamamoto remembers that incident, and he still maintains that if Hibari watches another freaking bird documentary again he is going to go batshit insane.

"Quite domestic, don't you think?" Genkishi drawls, tossing the photos aside. They flutter onto the floor, and Yamamoto resists the urge to pick them up and shred them. "It just so _happens_ that the agent who's tracking me shares a home with you."

"You fucking voyeur," Yamamoto sneers. "Get off on it, don't you?"

Genkishi sniffs indignantly. "Your cold dead body is much more appealing to me, I assure you."

"I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to think about that in hell," Yamamoto snarls. "After I'm done with you, of course."

His enemy sighs and twitches his sword a little. "Well, here's the thing," Genkishi begins, and Yamamoto lunges. He's had enough of this useless banter, and the longer he stands talking the more dangerous the situation becomes; he will not have this freak anywhere near Hibari.

His own knife clashes with a blade and Genkishi gets a lucky punch in. It snaps Yamamoto's nose in a clean break and the spy retaliates with a well-placed side kick to the torso, which sends Genkishi stumbling backwards into the stall. Yamamoto rushes in for another kick, but this time Genkishi leaps up and Yamamoto ends up smashing the tank. Cold water gushes everywhere.

"Dear god," Yamamoto grunts, detangling his foot as Genkishi climbs up over the stall and lands like a cat on the other side. They leap for each other again and grapple madly, weapons kicked aside as they engage in a rather messy fistfight. It's sloppy and not exactly Yamamoto's style, but hey, jabbing Genkishi in both eyes is hugely satisfying.

The raw, violent brawl goes back and forth like a tug of rope for a short while; Yamamoto's sure he managed to fracture several ribs on his enemy while Genkishi's regretfully sharp punches will surely result in painful bruises and probably some internal bleeding afterwards. His gun had been thrown across the restroom and is now resting by the doorway, completely useless. Yamamoto drags himself up onto the sinks to avoid a swipe, and Genkishi follows. The two of them shuffle back and forth, kicking water everywhere while exchanging fast, livid strikes. For about two seconds, Genkishi gains the upper hand and manages to yank Yamamoto down in a tight chokehold, which he wouldn't let go for love or fuck.

"You ass," Yamamoto splutters, kicking Genkishi's knee out, and just as he finds the leverage to break free of the hold and hoist Genkishi up for a throw, the bathroom door opens.

The next few seconds happen in multiple stages. A young, dashing man dressed to the nines enters, fiddling with his cufflinks and looks down to see the gun. Startled, the man glances up just in time to see Yamamoto, who is already lost in the momentum, throw Genkishi, who sails six feet across the bathroom and crashes into the man at the doorway just as Yamamoto slips on the wet sink and barely saves himself by doing the splits right along the edge.

Unfortunately, there is also an ominous sound of fabric tearing and seams splitting, and an unnatural breeze between his legs tells Yamamoto that his pants probably aren't doing their job of covering him up at the moment.

"Jesus fuck," Yamamoto spits, staggering onto the ground. There is a tear right through the inseam of his pants from front to back and even down the left leg, which pretty much leaves the colours of his boxers to zero imagination. It's blue and yellow polka-dotted with baseballs, for the record.

The poor bystander's yells and a scramble of footsteps alerts Yamamoto of Genkishi's escape; the assassin gives a furtive glance back before sprinting out of the bathroom, leaving Yamamoto to groan about the state of his pants for 0.00001 of a second before sprinting after his nemesis, scooping up the gun along the way.

He sees Genkishi running through the restaurant, shoving waiters and diners roughly out of the way as he heads up towards the balcony. Up above, Hibari is already on his feet, eyes narrowed as he picks up the steak knife on the table.

Yamamoto skids to a stop and ignores several shocked gasps from diners behind him who are obviously shocked by his bloody nose or enjoying the sight of his underwear. He doesn't even think as he raises the gun in his hand and shoots two rounds into the ceiling.

Screams and yells of terror erupt from the patrons. Within seconds people were dashing for the doorways, food is tossed everywhere, and Genkishi is hopelessly mobbed by hundreds of desperate diners scrambling for the doorways, effectively preventing him from heading up the stairs for Hibari. Yamamoto brutally shoves his way forward, and he's given a wide berth, mainly because he's still got the gun in the air. Above them, Hibari rolls his eyes dramatically, but Yamamoto thinks he sees a hint of a smirk on the raven's face.

Yamamoto reaches Genkishi first, and he grabs the assassin. The two of them fall, nearly trampled by the people running around them, and wrestle madly onto the ground. Genkishi, the bastard, is slick as an eel and manages to break the gun and wiggle out of Yamamoto's grasp before running— albeit with an awful limp— halfway up the stairs only to receive a powerful blow to the face from a descending Hibari. Genkishi staggers back and Hibari glides down the stairs before he strikes again, calm as you please, with a look of bored distaste on his face. Genkishi spits blood out and lunges for Hibari, who promptly flips the steak knife out from the confines of his sleeve and stabs the assassin straight in the chest. Genkishi roars and stumbles, barely managing to catch Hibari around the knee. The assassin knocks the raven right through the decorative glass safeguards of the stairs, which completely shatters as Hibari falls backwards off the side of the stairs.

Scrambling to his feet, Yamamoto kicks an empty table to break Hibari's fall as the raven twists in mid-air and manages to land on his side. The table splinters with a heavy _crunch_ and more dishware crashes onto the ground.

"Are you alright?" Yamamoto pants, grabbing Hibari's arm. The agent stands upright smoothly and grunts, "Of course I am, asshole, keep your eye on Genkishi!"

The said man, however, is already slipping out of the front door, and sirens could be heard in the distance. Rolling his eyes, Hibari grabs Yamamoto's hand and snaps, "Move out."

The two of them dash out a back exit and stumble into the Porsche. A BMW is fishtailing around the corner, no doubt stolen by Genkishi. Swearing, Yamamoto shoves the keys into the ignition and peels out of the parking lot, ramming a car out of his way as he drives down the street.

"He'll be headed to our apartment," Hibari huffs as he takes out a spare gun in the glove compartment and tosses it to Yamamoto. "He wants to finish the job, that fucking herbivore."

"I love how you said 'our' apartment," Yamamoto replies, the tiniest of smirks tugging at his face. Hibari flashes him a dull look.

"Stop talking and drive, fool," the raven growls. "If you don't hurry you won't _have_ an apartment to go up to."

"Why's that?" Yamamoto asks, momentarily thrown off.

Hibari raises an eyebrow. "Didn't you install a ton of security equipment with Tsuna yesterday? With an exploding umbrella stand that needed to be decoded and all?"

Yamamoto pauses. "Well, shit," he says, and then purposefully runs a red light.

They pull up with a high pitched squeal of tires at the parking lot of Yamamoto's building ten minutes later, and seat belts are flying off and safeties are being pulled off their guns. But before Hibari could open the car door, Yamamoto reaches across and grabs the raven's arm, heart pounding heavily in his chest.

"What?!" Hibari snaps, glaring, and Yamamoto leans right in and kisses him.

It is, needless to say, the most inappropriate time for a kiss, but Yamamoto couldn't stop himself. There were few people in the world he would honestly risk his life for, and tonight he'd fought Genkishi, completely given up his dignity (thanks, pants) and is now ready to run straight into an assassin. The Yamamoto two weeks ago certainly wouldn't have done all that.

He breaks the kiss, and Hibari opens his eyes, dark irises quietly searching Yamamoto's. "I figured," Yamamoto says softly, closing his free hand over Hibari's, "That actions are probably louder than words. I hope I answered the question you asked earlier this evening."

Hibari smiles at that, _really_ smiles; it's a slight lift of the corner of his mouth and his eyes soften minutely. It makes him look stunning.

"I think you have, herbivore," the raven says smartly. "Now get out and kick some ass or you're sleeping on the couch, 80."

"You wish, Agent 18," Yamamoto grins, and he leaps out of the Porsche just as the building behind them explodes.

It's not an especially big combustion, but it's enough to break an entire row of windows on one floor and send Yamamoto and Hibari sprawling onto the ground. Car alarms go off everywhere and screams erupt from around them. Yamamoto slowly draws himself upright, Hibari mimicking his movements on his left. There is no doubt about who'd set off the explosion, and though they would have to do a routine check later, Genkishi is, for the most part, pretty much dead.

And Yamamoto figures it'll probably be smart to ring Reborn up now, to let him know what's happened and get a V team in place before the police arrive, but at the moment his apartment is going up in flames, smoke is pouring out of the building, and what sounds like a ginormous part of his ceiling has broken off and is caving in. "Well," Yamamoto says, feeling a breeze drift through his torn trousers, somewhat at loss for words. "That's that, I guess."

There's a moment of silence.

"I have a place in Japan," Hibari suggests, tucking his gun back into his holster, and Yamamoto can't help it. Despite everything that's happened and all the paperwork and shouting from Reborn he'll most certainly have to go through later on, he bursts into laughter.

* * *

_Two weeks later_

"How am I supposed to assign you two missions now?" Reborn demands over the speakerphone, irritated but not particularly angry. "There's a reason why we base our agents in Italy, you know, not some-the-fuck-where halfway across the world."

"We're in Japan, idiot, not Atlantis," Hibari snaps, carefully rearranging his now slightly singed Bonsai tree next to the window. Yamamoto snorts, carefully lining up the books in alphabetical order on the bookshelf.

"The question remains: how am I supposed to assign you two missions now?" Reborn repeats, shuffling some papers in the background. "You're lucky Hibari managed to negotiate his way back into Japan with the Yakuza, and by that I mean he basically wiped them all out. Do you know how much of a wasted resource that is? Honestly, if you two weren't V's best agents—"

"Yeah, yeah, you'd have us purged from this earth as the bane of your existence," Yamamoto says, rolling his eyes.

"At least my apartment's not burnt to crisp," Reborn retorts, and Yamamoto can almost hear the smirk over the phone.

"Har har har, very funny," Yamamoto grumbles. "If you've got nothing nice to say then say nothing at all. Buh-bye, Reborn!"

"Whatever," Reborn snorts. "Just keep the kinky sex to yourselves." And then he hung up, leaving Hibari to grumble and toss his phone back onto the sofa.

"Busybody," the raven mumbles as he rummages through yet another box. Yamamoto chuckles and dusts his hands off, glancing around his husband's modern, tidy penthouse. It is full of earth colours and very traditional. Hibari's things are scattered around, neat and tidy, but now Yamamoto's belongings are mixed into the equation. Well, what is left of his things, anyway. How the stupid Bonsai tree survived is beyond both of them.

"Lovely place," Yamamoto grins, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Hibari smirks as he stands up with yet another pile of books.

"Better than yours ever was."

"You wish. My apartment was amazing. You loved the place."

"Stop dreaming," Hibari snorts. "There's nothing you have that I could possibly want, blown-up apartment included."

Yamamoto takes a deep breath, and slowly lowers himself onto one knee. "What about this, then?" he asks quietly, and pulls a velvet square box out of his pocket.

Hibari turns, and his face is momentarily blank. It's the old agent fallback, and Yamamoto can tell that the poker face is only used to blanket emotions that would give one away. In the face of the telltale meaning behind the little box, Hibari's awfully good at it, though. Time to change that.

"Hibari Kyoya, will you marry me?" Yamamoto asks softly, opening the lid of the box. Tucked neatly inside isn't a ring, though, but something slivery and long. Yamamoto knows the raven doesn't wear jewelry, and Hibari's eyebrows furrow and he leans down to carefully pull the mystery object out.

The long and silvery thing is a chain. Hanging from the chain, however, is—

"These are your dog tags," Hibari says, turning each of the flat pieces of metal over with care.

"From when I served in the army," Yamamoto nods, closing the box. "I figured I'd give you a proper proposal with them." Hibari looks sharply down at him.

"You're giving them to me?" he asks, a bit of confusion evident in his voice. Yamamoto grins wryly, running a hand through his hair.

"They're important to me," he replies simply. "Just like you."

Hibari turns the dog tags over, and the metal glitters in the afternoon sun streaming in through the open curtains. The same small smile curves over the raven's mouth momentarily before he looks down at Yamamoto and says, "You are hopeless, tacky, and an absolute fool, Yamamoto Takeshi. I swear to God if you hadn't proved yourself to be an omnivore I'd bite you to death."

"Is that a yes?" Yamamoto grins, heart skipping a beat.

Hibari rolls his eyes, smacking him lightly on the side of the head. "_Of course_ that's a yes, idiot, and for heaven's sake it's unsightly to play coy. Also, it's about fucking time you asked me to marry you properly."

Yamamoto laughs, his chest warming in a rather embarrassing way, but he tugs the tags free from Hibari's hand and stands so that he can slide it over his husband's head. It rests neatly on Hibari's chest and Yamamoto thinks it's perfect.

"You can stop staring now," Hibari snickers, nudging him with his toe.

"I can't help it," Yamamoto smiles. "You look beautiful from this angle, like an angel. The sun coming in the window's like a glowing halo around your head, and it makes your eyes sparkle like rainbows, and—"

"Alright, that's enough," Hibari snorts, rolling his eyes. "Shut up so I can kiss you, stupid. Your cheesiness is making me ill."

"You know you love it," Yamamoto says brightly, winding his arms around his husband's waist as he did.

"Whatever," Hibari smirks as he grabs the front of Yamamoto's button-up shirt, which is definitely going to end up an unsalvageable mess on the ground. "I'm going to make you _scream_ for it."

"Oh, it's on," Yamamoto grins back, just as feral. "You are going down, Agent 18."

"We'll see, 80. We'll see."

They stagger backwards into the bedroom; all inhibitions throw aside because who would've thought? One infamously single spy and another ludicrously violent agent tying the knot out of pure accident, and then actually ending up in— dare it be said? — love. Even the apocalypse won't be able to stop them in the field or in bed now.

In the hallway of their new home, the moving boxes piled ceiling-high on top of one another sure won't be unpacked for a very long time. However, the picture of _Starry Night_, the stupid, wonderful painting that started it all, hangs neatly on its peg on the wall. It's a reminder of the beginning of their brilliantly dangerous love story and the rest of their lives waiting to be written.

…

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

"What the hell?" Hibari mutters, breaking their sloppy kiss to reach into his pocket. His phone is buzzing, and Yamamoto raises his eyebrow. Hibari puts it on speakerphone once more.

"This had better be good, Reborn," he growls.

"Are you and Yamamoto having kinky sex right now?" Reborn says, his voice tinny. "Because if you are I sorely regret calling back."

"Just about to," Yamamoto interrupts, and from the background it sounds like Tsuna's started choking on his tea.

"Well, you'll have to put that on hold for now," Reborn said in his I'm-the-Boss-of-V-do-what-I-say voice. "We've received a credible threat about a shady character named Checkerface. I need you two to fly straight to Berlin to take a look into it."

Yamamoto's eyebrow goes up and Hibari presses his lips together. It could be a dangerous job. It could be highly life-threatening. One of them may go down or they could both perish in the field.

But, that's what made being a superspy so damningly awesome. It's an occupational hazard.

"Sounds like we don't have much of a choice," Yamamoto says lightly, a wide grin already cutting across his face. "Agent 18 and 80, reporting for duty."

* * *

_End_

* * *

Wow, that was long! Like, really, really long. Whoops.

Also, the ending was a slight rip-off of the ending of Skyfall, which I adore at unhealthy levels. Daniel Craig, Ben Whishaw and Javier Bardem in one movie basically ruined my feels.

Thank you for reading this insane piece! Happy Singles' Awareness Day. –Sprinkles pixie dust and hearts everywhere-

-BlackStar


End file.
